Whisper

You will see angry men, sensitive and insecure. Take off your angry sunglasses! Or an old lady reaching for French bread pizzas in the frozen section. 

“Where is my past of mounding dough down some stone canal in France?” A woman – Lone. “Where are my memories? Don’t you get them anymore?”

With dirty eyes peeking from a barred pharmacy window facing the street.

An escape from noise – To watch you 

Take off your wig on the cobblestone…

“Sure let’s crack it open, eh?”

Separating yourself from the identity that your family has only recently learned to love – and around the corner your running…

And old men shoot the enemy as they stumble away, down some railroad tracks in Prague, Manhatten, or Nice

Died mumbling.

I’ve seen leaders send their armies through the golden gates unlocked by Peter. Out these doors you left a man and returned beyond recognition, clawing through clouds and metal in order to reach the ones you love.

That loved you… Those who are no longer with you on Earth

Have forgotten the sound of your voice, and in the mirror stands a different man, numb – and sad like always in the dark giggling, clutching your knees and idiot.

Letter to H.- R.-

Jan. 26, 2017
Dear Friend,

So, I pick up a pencil, start writing and this might turn out to be your letter – destined to arrive in the mail whenever it gets there in ol’ Eastern through hell or high water thanks to the reliable USPS. Currently if I could turn my head like an owl; 180 degrees of vision would be (to my left) outside the window of the library, the parking lot and old schoolhouse all covered with snow – one giant tree leaning over all the cars. To my right, the 180 degrees consists of bookshelves full of books. My miniature heaven built all proud here downtown, holding all these secret grains of knowledge. The library is the golden shore where the waves of my passion come to rest while my body is flung about hopelessly in the swirling-whirl currents underneath of the waves – life and thoughts of, “Who am I? And you?” “Is this my toe?” I swear I can spot an alien wearing my skin when I stare into the mirror. The golden shore – it’s where I go to get books, you see, and they do this magic work through the words in front of me that put secret voices in the air that take my mind far away, beyond the bounds of vision. I can smell the marijuana there in dingy Arabian huts with Turks and bearded turbans kneeling next to rubble and a dud American bomb. Or the hazy blue opium tint in Thai dens, shanghaied away from the rest of the world hiding in plain day naked man.
So, I thought one day, coming down off LSD, in the foggy California mountain hills lining the King’s Range – that maybe all this time I’ve been living within me – stepping outside onto the porches of mind calmly examining the contents of my brain; little clouds passing before me bobbing in the great oceanic sea that is the sky. Made up of all the things we can’t see, so essential to our humble lives. Standing there on the porch outside, I can recall every rolling hill and pulsating ridge-way dropping the land down into the coast – beyond these miles of valleys – in nature I knew those clouds, which held my thoughts, drifting across the scenery of the world I had been staring into, would by evening release a flood of rain to nourish the inhabitants of this shared inner-mind. New grass would spring all at once transforming what had been dead into a living life form, vibrant and brand new.
I saw there that we all breathe this one and same air, depositing back into it with each passing second. Sharing the breath deep in our lungs with the countless myriads of beings under the heavens. How each time we breathe we are transformed. Waking each morning to experience the wonders of this world completely renewed – with fresh capacity to appreciate the magic around us in moments others will call mundane. Breathing into I – I see everything – Earth as one. Aware of each passing moment we recognize our individual tie to the same soul that we all share.
So, snowmageddon started here and it seems the great Mother Earth had decided to purify the land via frozen water before sweeping us all away in the eventual flood. I don’t mind. “Give me my wine youngin’! I ain’t got time for metaphysical spunk!”
Anyway for about two weeks straight the household shoveled, hammered, and hauled snow and ice off the roof and as far from the house as possible. I for one, pulled a muscle in my back and continued to work through the pain leaving me currently out of commission for vigorous physical activity (it even hurts to cough). Some piles of snow reach a good five inches above my head. The ice on the roof almost a foot thick! A few buildings around town have crumbled.
Hurry and find some land out East so we may buy a section and build multiple small farmsteads on said land, thereby creating a stable landing pad in order to provide a storage place for our valuable goods and serve as home base to travel by plane, car, and boat to the destinations of our desire.
As far as books go – I am now just finishing up a group of short stories before I move onto Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Recently, in fact yesterday, I finished a long, typed sort of ’book’ of about 20 or so single-spaced lined pages with roughly 21,095 words – written over a year and typed under 24 hours. This brings me great excitement as it will serve as a manuscript for a piece under a working title which Is being kept top secret for now, which I hope to share with you soon. The Alchemist sits on the shelf here and I hope to read it one day, when I have swam through this tormenting river of words that have engulfed me. Consequence of gathering all these books here. Perhaps because of your suggestion I will pick it up as soon as possible.
To talk of unnecessarily long letters! I insist upon any irritation that you will crumble these pages and promptly toss them into the fire. I have made up my mind to type this letter just now – looking out the window to smoke curling away to mingle in the tops of these evergreens.
Men – they are all terrible. Over half have no idea what it is like to be a real man because terrible men taught them so. I hardly know either – I’m simply a who-what-it that is bored with the roles of gender in society. And if I cook and wear a dress I’m no longer a being with a penis. I think men are terrible because you can see it slung across their shoulders in army packs as they stumble away all bum from the railroad tracks trying to figure out where to go in life – living with all the terrible choices they have made. I think of love — I think true love comes from having complete freedom and honesty with one another in order to hopefully break down borders caused my selfishness and jealousy. When each person can do whatever they would do if they were alone and the other person stays because they want to – that to me is love. It can be spread across infinity, not just confined to one space – the reservoir of love cannot be emptied. I think the key is finding someone who gives you freedom and that kind of unconditional quality without wasting themselves away, or becoming to oppressive on you. I think love is strengthened between two people if both individuals realize they would be with each other regardless of loving another person, having the freedom to love each other at the same time. Love is love.
I love jazz! Count Basie is playing now – ooooo lordy child! My feet just start moving, shuffling – I start bopping up and down, jumping, dancing around. All smiles, praising God, throwing arms up, through the air. I get carried away and back down to Earth again with the spiritual sounds of Thelonius Monk – whispering things to me my soul always knew since I was a baby gawking and kicking, trying to explain it all.
Congratulations on landing your job! I’ve included with the letter a small book of epigrams from Honore De Balzac, I hope you like it! I believe there has been rumors of a road trip to Eastern soon so it may be that soon we are laughing and drinking. Please take me to this café you speak of when we come – visiting them is like a private addiction. In the mean time I hope that your work is not too demanding on your time and you remain in good spirit for the majority of your hours. I wish to bring you a smile in the middle of the day through this letter and if I have failed, take care to write back of your disappointment.

As ever,

Esteban